Ink
by SydnieWren
Summary: Byakuya and Ichigo carry on a relationship in secret, but both are troubled by the meaning of their encounters, and the possibility of being discovered. Very smutty.
1. Bathing

**Hey guys! Hope you're all having great summers. This should be the first part of a series exploring the relationship between Byakuya and Ichigo, as many of you have requested. This style (namely the present tense) is a little unusual for me - I'm not sure the whole series will be done this way. Anyhow, I hope you like it!**

**Also! If you're interested in reading some teeny-tiny fanfiction pieces along with my original work, I now have a new home at ! You can stop by any time to read through some ficlets, drop me a note or even support me! I also release updates there about fics in progress, if you're ever wondering.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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><p>The Kuchiki manor is grand and stately, and also suffused with unbearable loneliness. Ichigo found it almost impossible to sleep beside Byakuya at first, though not on account of the sounds of his breathing or the movement of his body, but because those scant interruptions of the night were the only stirrings in the silence. Deep inside the maze of corridors and vast cavernous rooms, one cannot even hear the crickets sing.<p>

Ichigo is used to the silence now. He finds himself respectful of it, like another member of the household, always present, just out of sight. He treads lightly and speaks softly; when he returns to his life outside of the manor, Renji leans in close to hear him.

_"Are you sick or something? Speak up!"_

Even the memory is too loud for Kuchiki manor. Ichigo dismisses it from his mind as he follows the familiar path to the grand bath room. Before he even reaches the doorway, the hardwood floor becomes damp and warm, almost alive: Byakuya is already bathing. The intense perfume of the slowly burning incense mingles with the steam inside, and Ichigo slides the door shut softly, already enchanted.

The steam seems to part, and Ichigo finds that Byakuya is reclining in the full bath, his hair gathered messily with a thin leather cord. Between his fingers rests the ivory body of the long, slender kiseru pipe, from which only a little smoke issues, sweet and earthy. Though he barely acknowledges the boy with a sidelong glance, Ichigo knows he is welcome by the slow, graceful spread of Byakuya's knees, creating a place for him.

Softly, the boy's clothes pool at his ankles. The sound seems to dissipate in the mist. After a few confident footsteps, the water is disturbed, and Ichigo sinks in down to his waist, a low groan escaping him. Quite suddenly he feels so thoroughly heated, the smoke heavy as Byakuya breathes it against his lips, the water pressing against him almost as tightly as his lover's thighs. He can sense Byakuya's sex, inspired now that it is brushing teasingly against the small of his back, and the sensation has him shivering, as though he has never felt, never kissed, never touched him before.

But he has, mostly on nights like these, after unassuming days of typical substitute shinigami work. In the dying hours of the evening, Ichigo often finds himself among friends, shouting and drinking and carrying on - only to arrive in chambers like these by nightfall, as if borne by the darkness. He has heard of affairs like these before, between mentor and apprentice, but there is nothing courtly nor stately in the way Byakuya's hands travel over his body, in the way he spreads him open, touches him deeply. Both of them know that this could not be spelled out in formal words written in pure ink. It became clear some time ago, in the impenetrable, silent language of Kuchiki manor, that Byakuya had once again taken something forbidden to him.

He has fallen in love.

"Ichigo," he breathes, and the boy struggles to inhale the word. Their lips barely touch, and water rushes up the edges of the bath.

"Don't struggle," Byakuya adds, a broad palm flattening across Ichigo's stomach. The boy's sex is hard and straining in the heat of the water, each ripple and rush stimulating him further. Inch by inch his fingers sink lower, until they are wrapped tightly around Ichigo, eliciting a startled moan and deep flush. Ichigo can feel the vibration of Byakuya's murmurs in his bones, and he is sure he's sweating in the water.

"By-Byakuya," he gasps, arching into his hand. His heel slips and he loses his purchase; water rains on the hardwood floor with a pronounced splash, and he is flush against Byakuya's chest, panting. "Isn't the - the water gonna - get dirty if - "

"You were covered in sweat and sake when you got in, Ichigo," comes the even reply, Byakuya's adam's apple bobbing just above his shoulder. There is the hint of a smile on Byakuya's voice, and a sweet edge of smoke, and something hypnotic in the depth of it that inspires the imagination. Ichigo gulps and trembles, his thighs falling open as far as the walls of the bath will allow.

"Work," he rasps. Damp fingers card through his hair, and the water dripping down his cheeks may be runoff from Byakuya's wrist or his own sweat. The other hand is still moving on him, squeezing and stroking, alternating teasingly soft brushes of skin with intense pressure. Ichigo wonders vaguely if the Kuchiki servant charged with the task of heating their bath can hear his moaning through the walls.

"You mustn't tell any of them," Byakuya reminds him, in the same subtly stern whisper that sounds on most nights after their encounters, when he must consider the reality of Ichigo's naked body nestled against him. Ichigo nods feverishly, his mouth dry.

Presently Byakuya's fingers travel down the boy's neck, his lean shoulder, the expanse of his arm and then thigh, slipping between to cradle his soft sac, already drawn tight and close to his body. Ichigo's knees strain against the edges of the tub, trying to spread, spread wider, spread open, to invite Byakuya deeper, closer, inside.

Even as he comes, his body writhing in halting jerks, he aches for Byakuya, and moans as much in half-coherent streams of words that only trail off when his orgasm leaves him limp.

When he is again aware, the water is draining away. Byakuya's arm has settled comfortably across his midsection, effectively stilling him. He surmises that another bath will follow, this one longer and less labored, for cleansing. At the side of the tub he hears the delicate sounds of metal and ivory, like snowflakes on a windowpane - Byakuya refilling his pipe.

"What if they find out?" Ichigo murmurs, half-asleep.

"I suspect they will not."

"Yeah, but what if they do? What if - somebody - figures it out?"

A long inhale.

"Who?"

"I don't know. Renji, maybe. Kira. Somebody like that."

Byakuya breathes out a deep breath of smoke, biding his time.

"I don't know," he admits at length. The answer is well-trodden, very deeply considered. "Should the time come, perhaps it will - occur to me."

"Yeah," Ichigo murmurs. "Maybe."

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><p><strong>Thanks for the reads! Please review! <strong>


	2. Calligraphy

**Hey folks! So, here is chapter 2 of Ink, as promised! It's good to be writing again after such a long break. I'm currently on summer break, so if anybody has any pressing requests, feel free to send them in or remind me of older ones. I'll do my best. I write to share with you guys, so don't be shy!  
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**Also, did you guys know that readers have translated my stories into Russian and French? Exciting, right? I have such awesome readers!  
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**Hope everyone is having a great summer! As always, please review!  
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**Warnings: anal, naughtiness with a calligraphy brush.  
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><p>He awoke that morning to birdsong at the first light of dawn. Shy, cool light filtered through the paper door, which, graced with dew, glistened pale and warm like flesh. Mist cloaked the garden and upon some broad leaves had already begun to settle.<p>

There must have been just one skylark singing, and its rendition of the dawn chorus drew him into his garden barefoot and half-dressed. Each damp stepping stone passed level and smooth underfoot, and he was near the edge of the koi pond when he was reminded by the grace of a reed that Hisana was still dead.

And this recollection, not grief, stole away his breath. Now the loss of Hisana was old, and the wound had begun to heal: but the shock of it still stung anew each time he again for a moment experienced happiness.

For a time he had avoided joy just to avoid those little agonies, each of them different and in that respect impossible to prepare for.

But then came Ichigo.

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><p>Today no one joins him for calligraphy, and he finds it just as well. When others participate the act invariably disintegrates into a lesson, and though he is an excellent lecturer on the subject, the effort of teaching depletes the ease of the art.<p>

He is startled, therefore, when a soft rapping sounds on the doorframe behind him. This is the delicate and precise knock of his servants, and he knows at once a visitor must have arrived: no other imposition would be worth disturbing him over.

Byakuya rises, and as he does notices the little blot of ink that formed in the second of his surprise. His eye for imperfection surpasses only his eye for perfection. He beckons to the servant, who enters and bows, announcing the visitor:

"Kurosaki Ichigo, Kuchiki-taichou."

Byakuya dismisses him with a grateful nod, and Ichigo skulks in behind him, shoulders slumping, hands in his pockets.

"Sorry," he mutters, eyes lingering on the brush and inkwell still resting on their tray. "Didn't know you were busy."

"Not at all," Byakuya assures him evenly, sinking to the floor to take up his brush again. Ichigo lingers for a moment before settling beside him uneasily. Even the ink stone, presently dry and unused, seems an object far more elegant and expensive than one he should ever have any contact with.

Today, Byakuya notices, Ichigo has foregone his shinigami uniform in favor of a red t-shirt and blue jeans; the resultant flood of color, coupled with his orange hair, seems too much for the stately chamber. Byakuya has a strong preference for black and white.

Or, he did at one point.

Ichigo looks on as Byakuya wets the ink stone with a drop or two of water from a ceramic cup, and begins to grind a stick of ink into the small pool.

"You aren't wearing your uniform," Byakuya observes without looking up.

"I'm off today," Ichigo replies, nonchalant. He drums his fingers on his knees. The business of calligraphy is not for the instantly gratified.

"And you were just in the area by chance," Byakuya murmurs, glancing sidelong at the boy, "Is that right?

He shifts and shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."

In spite of himself Byakuya is smiling. The ink now fluid, he wets the brush and creates a confident, squared line in the center of the weighty paper. It is the sort of powerful stroke that elicits a gasp and resonates in the mind.

Little by little, the word appears. Not a line is wasted, nor a drop of ink, nor a gesture or motion from the tips of Byakuya's fingers to the round of his shoulder. The power of each brushstroke originates in his core and transmits itself through many tightly controlled muscles, gaining nuance along the way before erupting in a delicate streak of black on purest whiteness.

And Ichigo looks on, enthralled, as Byakuya gives form to glory.

A line of poetry begins to blossom on the page, and Ichigo feels quite suddenly out of place.

"I can go," he mutters, rising to a kneel on the mat, "if you're busy.

"Would you like to try?

It is as if Byakuya never heard him; but in fact this itself is his answer. He reclines and offers the brush to Ichigo, who is as disinclined to refuse generosity as he is to do calligraphy. His hand opens, and his mouth, but he says nothing, and when Byakuya lays the warm enamel brush in his palm, he stares down at it blankly for a long moment.

"What do I write?"

"Try your name," Byakuya offers, and this too is an act of generosity. Ichigo shrugs and reorients himself before the paper, which Byakuya weights with long flat stones. Never one to explain himself in his own home, the noble is silent as he moves behind his pupil, taking hold of his wrist to help him achieve the proper form. Ichigo's skin is as inviting as he expects, smooth and dusted with light downy hair, warm and growing warmer.

Ichigo lets Byakuya guide his hand, and in the sureness of his movements glimpses the origin of his excellent swordsmanship. He handles the brush as if it's a blade, as if one slip

A blot spreads out beneath the tip of the brush, and Ichigo pauses.

"Aah," Ichigo mutters, "guess I"

But there is a hush in the room that resists his speaking. And Byakuya's lips are caressing his neck at any rate. It is all he can do to lay the brush carefully against the ink stone before turning to capture the older man's lips with his own.

Their tongues meet; Ichigo's fingers are at Byakuya's scarf, always the first item of clothing to go, and in turn the hem of the boy's shirt is steadily traveling upward as the captain's fingers explore his midsection and ribs. A shiver runs through him as Byakuya's fingertips find his nipples, stroking the soft pink flesh to hardness and shuddering sensitivity.

"Can we here-?" Ichigo gasps, his eyes flickering to the door as if to suggest the shadow of a servant lurking outside. Byakuya catches his chin between his thumb and forefinger and sucks the swollen lower lip between both of his.

"Don't raise your voice," comes the reply, murmured hotly against the shell of Ichigo's ear. It is easier said than done. Still, no more than a sigh passes his lips when Byakuya lifts his shirt over his head, ruffling his mess of orange hair; the other's kosode is next to slide to the floor, revealing the pale expanse of muscular chest and shoulders.

"Lay back," Byakuya whispers, and Ichigo obeys catching tastes of his lover's lips as he reclines onto their shed clothing. He lets his eyes drift momentarily closed and traces the pattern of the mat beneath him, amazed, in some vague way, by how quickly this all transpired. It occurs to him that Byakuya must crave him as much as he craves him, must go whole hours thinking of him, must tingle at the sound of his footsteps

His zipper is lowered and boxers grasped by the waistband; summarily both garments are removed in one tug. Though he expects warmth, a hand or tongue or welcoming lips, Ichigo struggles to contain his gasp when something quite cool makes contact with the base of his sex.

"Byakuya," he pants, peering down as the brush, now dripping with water, slides up the length of his sex to tease beneath the head. His thighs jerk apart and his hips give a slight jolt; Byakuya seems thoroughly pleased, catching Ichigo's eyes pointedly in a remainder to stay quiet.

Ichigo's fingers flex against the mat as Byakuya traces meandering lines over the tip of his cock and down the base again, across his sac and inner thighs, eliciting a rush of heat that leaves his cheeks flushed and chest heaving. His cock is pulsing hard and he finds himself writhing in anticipation of the teasing attention.

Among all of the aspects of Ichigo that enchant Byakuya, he is most compelled by the ease with which the boy yields to pleasure, and his hunger for it, his rapture in it. His fingers tangle in Byakuya's hair and slide underneath the kenseikan, slipping them loose. They clatter to the floor and it would be impossible for Byakuya to care any less. He leans close, slips his tongue into Ichigo's mouth in a suggestion of things to come, and feels his cock fully harden as the boy's hands work his hakama loose.

In a fold of his robes there is a phial, and Byakuya seeks it out nimbly even among the haphazard pile of clothes. Ichigo grins wolfishly against his lips as if to acknowledge that there was some intention of this in the man's mind all along, and there was: their interludes have become more and more frequent, and more and more significant with the passage of time.

One slick finger presses inside Ichigo, and the boy suppresses a groan; when the second finger sinks into him, he comes perilously close to crying out. Byakuya spreads his digits apart, sliding them along the contours of Ichigo's entrance, seeking with practiced ease that supple gland that promises so much sensation

Ichigo's jaw clenches when he finds it, and he must bite down on his swollen lower lip to choke the moan that erupts with the spasm of pleasure. Byakuya trails nipping kisses along his jaw and neck and then withdraws his fingers and brings his hand up underneath the boy's thigh, maintaining his grip as he positions the tip of his sex. Ichigo trembles but not out of trepidation; he is on the verge of being overwhelmed by Byakuya, his breath and his scent, the precision of his fingers, by what is insinuated each time he is gentler than he has to be, or more deliberate than what is due of a man in his station…

Byakuya enters in one smooth stroke. Sweat breaks out over Ichigo's flushed chest and shoulders, he knots his fingers in his lover's dark hair, a liberty few would ever dare. He arches into Byakuya's first tentative thrusts, his hips bucking instinctively as the pace picks up and Byakuya pushes deeper, harder.

"Byakuya just like that Ichigo moans, or perhaps he is begging. His calves cross over the small of his lover's back and draw him impossibly deep; the angle is steep and stars burst across the boy's vision when his orgasm courses through him, splashing hot fluid across his belly and leaving him slack.

It is partly that Ichigo tenses around him and partly the gratification so evident in his open lips and glossy eyes that hasten Byakuya's own climax, though he lasts a fair while longer than his lover. Ichigo holds his shoulders and through the receding haze of orgasm can feel the intensity of the muscles working beneath the pale skin.

When Byakuya comes it is with a breathy moan barely concealed by Ichigo's cheek. His body tenses and the boy can feel the spread of warmth inside him, accompanied by a hard thrust or two, arrhythmic and sharp. His vision momentarily darkens and his heart pounds in his ears; when he regains his senses, Ichigo's hands are traveling over him, tracing the tensing and relaxing of his muscles.

"Ichigo," he breathes, nuzzling close beside him, finally coming to rest on their scattered clothing.

"My jeans," Ichigo grumbles, peering down at a blossoming ink stain. Byakuya smiles lazily.

"A pity," he murmurs, his hand splayed over the other's heart. He glances up at the door, searching for the silhouette of a lingering servant, and thankfully finds nothing. No floorboards beyond betray the sound of an eavesdropper either; Byakuya expects this discretion of his household staff, and they have always acted discretely.

It is the discretion of others that he cannot account for.

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><p><strong>More? I'm thinking about it. Let me know what you think! <strong>


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